"Grace." He demands.
"I can't," I say shakily, leaning my head back and looking up at the shy stars.
"Why not?"
"It's not that I don't want to," I start, looking back at him to catch him already looking at me. "I can't afford it, Sam."
"Then me and...
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Sam buttons my pants for me, smiling like an idiot.
"You're smiling like a dork," I muse. His eyes meet mine and his grin widens as his fingers hook onto the belt loops of my jeans. He dips his head down, our lips meeting.
He's holding me as close as he can, running his thumb over the small strip of exposed skin between my top and shorts.
"Your skin is so soft," he whispers before his tongue slides over the seem of my bottom lip. I part my lips and our tongues fight for dominance until a knock sounds at my door, interrupting us.
We're still holding each other when I call, "Yeah?"
"I started the truck, let's go, trolls!" Dad calls back from behind my door.
I cup my boyfriend's face, letting my thumb trace the familiar prickling of his stubble. Our lips meet one last time before I reluctantly pull away. I know Sam won't pull away first, it's been a problem for years. Not that I mind it though.
When I spin on my heels for the door, he pulls me back to him by my wrist.
"Come on, baby, just one more," he frowns.
Grinning, I shake my head at him, pulling my arm away and leaving the room before he can make me change my mind.
Today is the day I meet my mom, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't practically shitty my pants over the whole thing.
Fifteen-year-old me would be furious. In a way, eighteen-year-old me is but, I dunno. This is kind of cool. It's like Christmas.
Except it isn't winter and I'm getting a parent, not a present.
We're all in the car when dad asks, "Are you excited?"
"Should I be?" I roll my shoulders back. "'Cause I think I'm more scared than I am excited."
It's true. If we don't hurry this up, I might puke in dad's truck.
That would be quite a way to say hello after not seeing each other for several months, wouldn't it?
"Me too," Sam pipes up, "and it's not even about me."
"Exactly," my dad says. "Stop making everything about you."
Sam frowns from the back seat. "How'm I-"
Dad cuts him off by turning the radio up until the sound of some random local band echoes through the vehicle.
I laugh loudly-- not that it could be heard over the music. Reaching my hand behind me, I feel for Sam's. Our fingers lace together as I roll down my window and the wind blows at my hair.
This was nice. And no amount of fear about meeting my mother could make me think otherwise.
